The Long Haul
by becka
Summary: Eventual slash. Picks up at the end of the final season, after Sunnydale's been blown sky high. Xander's not in it for the long haul.
1. The Long Haul

Title: The Long Haul

Author: Becka  
Pairing: Eventual Spike/Xander.

Warnings: Angst, Brutality, Dark, Disturbed, Language, Xander-torture.

Disclaimer: Buffy, the Vampire Slayer does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

Notes: Takes place at the end of the final season.

o

Xander's not in it for the long haul. The short haul left him minus an eye and out a girlfriend, so he really doesn't want to contemplate what the long haul might do to his precarious hold on a little thing he calls "sanity."

Thing is, no one seems to be giving Xander much of a chance to back out.

It's not like he volunteers for the shit they send his way. It's not like he's got a sign on his back that says, "Handyman for Abuse." It's not like he fucking __cares__ anymore.

But there's Buffy out of the corner of his eye, mouthing for him to give her a hand with the new Slayers. And there's Willow, with that little pout that he used to find endearing, begging for some advice on the Kennedy-bitch. And Faith! God, didn't see that one coming from a mile a way, with a beer in her hand, actually asking for advice from him – _him!_ – on what to do about their finances.

It's not a choice. He didn't make the choice.

And the long haul is looking to be more of a reality every goddamn day.

He could leave. Maybe.

It's a possibility that's got some merit, at any rate. If he just picked up his shit – maybe – and caught a ride out of town, he could start over somewhere else. Elsewhere. Maybe.

He wouldn't even have to __tell__ anyone. But then, they'd look for him.

He could fake his own death.

That was plausible. Just a "Hey, G-man, I'm goin' out for a walk. Yeah, yeah, I got my stake on me. What's the worst that could happen?"

He could go to a bar. Find a dark-haired, dark-eyed, construction-does-a-body-good traveler from out of town. Get the kid drunk enough to pass out. Maybe slip a little morphine into his beer, that way when he cut the kid's eye out, there wouldn't be any screaming. Doll the kid up in his favorite jeans and the most obnoxious flannel shirt that he owned, and knock out all of his teeth.

The teeth part was an afterthought. And considering that Sunnydale had gone up in flames, it was probably just paranoia. Nobody __had__ his dental records, did they?

So, yeah, innocent bystander substitute. Maybe go after that vampire nest that's been giving the gals some problems. Yeah, could work. Go after the nest with his double in tow, burn the place down, and hey! Charred but just barely recognizable Xander corpse.

And __then__ he could leave. No ties. No obligations. No fucking long haul.

He has money. Anya's genius with finances had insured he'd never need to work another day in his life. Her intuition had landed him stock in some of the fastest growing industries. He had his fingers in every new-money pie out there.

Yeah, he could do it.

No ties. No bestest buds turned worst enemies with spurts of "being there when really needed." No childhood friends biting the dust. No heart-to-heart shit. No freaky supernatural occurrences. No __vampires__.

Maybe he could go to college. He could pick some big university in some faraway city where no one knew him and it didn't matter if he got a "D" on his paper because he'd know he'd done his best. He could get a degree. He could grow up and put away his childhood nightmares and forget about the things that went bump in the night.

No obligations to anyone but himself.

He's driving himself crazy with this. "Giles," he calls out, snatching a stake from the kitchen table, "I'm goin' out for a walk."

Just to clear his head. A walk in the cold, crisp, __clean__ air to clear his head so that he can go back and pretend he's doing something with his life. Some fresh air to clear his head. Yeah, that's all he needs. A breather.

"Are you quite sure you want to go alone?" the British voice calls back.

"Yeah," Xander says as he slips through the door. "I'm armed. What's the worst that could happen?"

His hand comes up to cover his mouth. Shit, shit, shit, he thinks. Didn't just say that.

Innocent coincidence, that's all it is. And if he repeats it enough to himself, he starts to believe it.

His feet take over and he wanders without purpose. Probably not healthy, considering that mindless wandering occasionally lands one in graveyards, which in turns leads to staking fledges, which might even lead to getting turned __into__ said fledge. But Xander's mind is wandering in the great abyss, and it's so small compared to the rest of the universe that it's quite lost.

Maybe "M.I.A." would be the better term.

Jesus, he thinks. It's not my fault. I didn't ask for this.

But looking back, he had to try to fit in, didn't he? And in the beginning, it was great. He was part of the elite. He was privileged to stand beside the Slayer and kick butt. Well, get his butt kicked and run screaming like a girl, but hey! This is his own head, and denial is a beautiful place.

Besides, after seven years of getting his ass handed to him, he's improved a bit. Has a shot when it comes to ass kicking. Has an even greater tolerance for pain. Even he's not so thick that he can hang with the Slayer for so long and not pick up a few new tricks for his bag.

Take the new Slayer-babies for example. They've got the strength, but he can kick their butts around the block, because he's got the style. Ha! That's a laugh. Xand-man's got style. Finesse. Feng shui.

But it's the truth, and that's part of the reason they want to keep him around. He's never going to be able to pull off the Matrix shit, but he can hold his own. And when he can't, he's got the tolerance, the stamina, and the stupidity to survive whatever anyone might throw at him.

He's leading himself in circles, he thinks. Because in the beginning, he did enjoy it. He __liked__ having the dirt on every big'n'bad that came to town. He __liked__ being part of the circle that took them down.

Jesus, he liked being accepted. Was that so wrong?

And because he was always there, somehow Giles, Buffy, and Willow seemed to think he would always __be__ there. But they didn't know what he did for them – saving Buffy's life when the Master came to town, stopping the school from going ka-boom when Jack and the Zombies wanted to bake a cake, just to name a few.

The long haul is so fucked, because he's got a hyena cackling in his head and a soldier barking out orders. The long haul is no longer cool, because he's got scars from every Ugly he did the tango with. The long haul is killing him, because his girlfriends have wanted him for three reasons – a late night snack, a spell gone wrong, or wild animal sex.

The sex part he can deal with, even if it left him feeling like a two-cent hooker. The sex part is fine, because that's what normal, horn-ball teenagers do.

But when his love prospects want to bite his head off during the act, Xander feels he has the right to protest.

He knows he's not normal. He knows he's not healthy. But sometimes he wonders if he could have been normal in another world. If he could have been an innocent bystander if not for the whole slay-first-question-later thing.

It's in his fucking __blood__ now. Seven years of training has it so far ingrained in him that when he hears a loud noise, he drops to the floor and reaches for the nearest weapon. A plane passes overhead and he's got flashbacks of the sonic boom that made his school go bye-bye. The last person that sneaked up on him was in the hospital for a month with a broken leg, two fractured ribs, and a punctured lung.

He's dangerous now. He's a fucking menace to society. He can't function in the real world anymore because he's choking on war-mentality, and it's a bitter taste.

It seemed so innocent seven years ago. They were the good guys. They soundly thrashed and alternately banished the bad guys.

But now, there's nothing __left__ for him. He's removed himself so far from the rest of society that the only people he can have any semblance of normal conversation with at bars are the military kind. He can't chat up pretty girls, because they're not Anya. He can't kid around with the guys because his humor's been reduced to one-liners involving smelly demon guts.

Killing and recreation are no longer mutually exclusive.

And it's just so fucked. Everything's __fucked__ because death is in his blood and he doesn't know how to live anymore. And every day in that house, training Slayers, giving love-advice to witches, researching and patrolling – Jesus, it's fucking killing the little spark he thinks of as his soul.

He wants out. He wants out so bad.

But the long haul is always looming.

His feet stop walking and he looks up. His destination surprises him, but not as much as it should have. Seedy little bar, right on the outskirts of town, and he represses the urge to vomit.

He should walk away. He should turn on his heel and skip back to the house and lend his ear to Willow while she babbles about Kennedy. He shouldn't be here.

"Fuck, man," a voice behind him says. "You goin' in or not?"

He turns and his heart skips a beat.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Maybe an inch shorter than he is.

And fuck, he shouldn't be thinking about it, but he already is. It's in his blood.

"Sorry," his mouth says, curving up into an easy smile. "Long day."

"S'cool," the guy replies.

"Lemme' buy you a drink," Xander's mouth offers. "Least I can do."

The guy laughs. "Sounds like a plan."

Xander wonders if the guy has a girlfriend.

"What's your poison?" Xander's mouth asks.

"Tequila," the guy says.

Xander wonders if the guy's mother is still alive. Xander wonders if his mother will miss him.

"C'mon," Xander's mouth replies as he jerks his thumb towards the door. "I'll buy you a couple of shots. Make up for my earlier stupidity."

"Sounds good, but you really don't have to," the guy replies.

Xander wonders when everything went so wrong.

"I insist. Think of it as my apology." Xander's mouth is a cocky little bastard. And Xander is finding out just how much he hates himself.

But none of that matters as they make their way to the bar.

Because Xander knows that he doesn't have the choice anymore. There's no turning back.

Xander's in it, now.

He's in it for the long haul.

o


	2. Unsavable

Title: The Long Haul

Author: Becka

Chapter 2: Unsavable

o

Xander's done it.

Jesus Christ, he's staring at a corpse that's wearing his clothes, and it's like one of those accidents on the highway – you know the kind. It's a fucking six-car pile up, where all the passer-by slow down to take a guilty little peek, and there's that charred smell, crispy human flesh, scorching his nose.

Holy shit, he thinks to himself. I'm so fucked.

It was easier than he thought. It was twenty bucks worth of tequila and the benevolent offer to drive his double home. It was pulling over right near that vampire nest that's been giving his girls problems and letting his double puke his guts out. It was reaching out with trembling hands and snapping the poor guy's neck like a twig.

Jesus Christ, he thinks to himself. I'm going to hell.

It was switching the guy's skin-tight pants with his baggy jeans. It was swapping the guy's black mesh shirt for his nasty flannel. It was unlacing nice black shoes and shoving a pair of tattered sneakers on the guy's stiff feet.

Oh, God, Xander thinks, and he leans over and quietly empties the contents of his stomach into an unsuspecting bush.

There's no going back now.

And that's Xander, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. That's Xander, with the comfortable weight of the stake in his hand, slipping into the vampire's nest. That's Xander, emerging fifteen minutes later, covered in a thick layer of vampire soot.

Somebody, anybody, he thinks, please, help me.

But no one does. No one comes to his rescue as he drags the body to the edge of the nest, carefully arranging it to look as though he'd been making his escape when he was killed. He's choking on the smell of gasoline and it's burning his eye; that's what's making the tears stream down his face, right?

There's no one there to save him as he pulls a cigarette out of the shirt he's wearing, striking a match to it.

There's no salvation in the poisonous taste of menthol and the blackness stinging his lungs.

There's nothing left for him. And as he drops the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground, flames lick at the trail of gasoline, lick at the mockery he's called a life for seven years, and it's burning up around him, and __Jesus Christ__.

I'm not Xander Harris, he thinks, watching as the flames engulf his soon-to-be body. Xander Harris is a good man. Xander Harris would never do this.

He can't watch this anymore. He just –

I'm not Xander Harris, he thinks. I'm every monster he's ever killed.

o

Xander's feet start walking, but Xander's not quite there. The hamster in his brain seems to have spontaneously combusted. He's wearing a dead man's clothing – Jesus Christ, he's wearing the clothes of a man he killed.

He's a walking target right now. He's lunchmeat for the things that go bump in the night. He's the late-night Xander-shaped buffet, and God help him, he doesn't care.

There's no destination in his mind right now, because he's fucking praying for a vampire or a demon or whatever to take him up on his oh-so-gracious invite. He __wants__ something to take the choice away from him.

No. That's not right. He's already given up the choice. He doesn't have the right to choose anymore. He doesn't have a say in his life, death, or manner of demise. He forfeited that when he ended another man's life.

Oh, God.

Xander kneels on the side of the road, doubled over as he dry heaves.

Oh, God.

He just killed a man.

Xander knows that he's not innocent. But before it was justified. Vampires weren't __real__ people – never mind that they had been, once. Demons didn't have souls. It was okay to kill them, because they killed innocents.

Oh, God, he thinks. I don't even know his name.

Jesus, it was selfish. He needed a way out of his own life – fuck, he needed finality. But he didn't have the right to end someone else's life, just so he could come to grips with his own.

Does he have a soul?

Does he deserve to call himself human?

Xander pulls himself off the ground, stumbling forward as his feet decide it's time to start walking again. His mouth is dry, and there's bile in his throat, but he doesn't have anything left to throw up.

He doesn't have anything left at all.

o

Xander walks throughout the night. He ignores the uncomfortable pinch of the unfamiliar shoes. He ignores the chafe of the mesh on his skin. He just keeps walking.

He walks to the next town. He walks into the nearest bank. And he walks out with a suitcase of cold, hard cash.

It's in these moments that he thanks Anya's paranoia. No one knows about this account. No one would know to check for it after he was gone. Hell, no one would even suspect. How could they? All of his clothes are Goodwill. He makes a big deal out of spending three bucks on a chocolate sundae for Dawnie, even though he always gives in when she uses puppy dog eyes.

Oh, God. Dawn. Lil' sis to Buffy. Attached at the hip to Willow. The light in Giles' eyes. Faith's mini-hellion.

Jesus, they should be glad he's gone. He doesn't deserve to know them. He's a fucking monster.

Don't think about it, Xand-man, he says to himself, hefting his briefcase. Ignore it and it'll go away.

The money he's toting didn't put a dent in his savings – didn't even put a dent in his interest – but he finds himself outright purchasing a sleek, black Harley and enough gas to get him to the next state. He does it because he needs a ride. It's another escape, but that's fine. An extra thousand insures that the name on the papers isn't his own.

That's his next order of business. With enough cash, you can buy just about anything on the black market, including a brand new identity: Alex Caducus. A legitimate birth certificate embossed with this name.

Armed with this, he finds his way to an Internet café. Thanks to Willow, hacking into the FBI, the CIA, it's second nature. With this name, he creates a new identity, a new social security number, a new life. He's got all the papers waiting for him, has them FedEx-ed to the shoddy hotel room he's staying in for the moment.

The last name was his idea. He's almost proud of it. After years of researching, speaking Latin is as easy as flipping a switch in his head.

Caducus. Falling. The fallen.

Caducus. Destined to die. Devoted to death.

Caducus.

That's the face that looks back at him when he stares in the mirror.

He hasn't slept in three days.

o

His next order of business is the clothes. He's still wearing a dead man's clothing.

During the day, he makes his way to the mall. He picks up some hair-dye at CVS. He snags some colored contacts at the optical department in Boscovs. He saves ten percent on the black leather trench because he pays for it up front.

It all kind of blurs together after that. He buys a couple of pairs of comfortable blue jeans, and two pairs of leather for when he rides his bike. He splurged on a set of Doc Martins. He picks up a pack of black t-shirts.

And thanks to his forged papers, he buys himself a gun – a Smith and Wesson, several extra clips, and the standard ammunition. He buys the supplies so he can carve the wooden bullets himself. He picks out a heavy axe, the kind that works miracles for decapitating demons, at the Home Depot next door.

The weapons are an afterthought. Oh, he knows he needs them – hell, he feels naked without them – but it had been… nice. Without them, he could almost pretend that he's normal, lulled into the falsehood that he didn't just kill a man four days ago.

Oh, God.

Xander stumbles to the bathroom, drops his bags on the tiled floor, and dry heaves into the toilet. He's almost relieved that he hasn't been able to keep any food down, because there's nothing in his stomach except the churning bile.

He doesn't know how he makes his way back to his shitty motel. Or maybe he does know how, but he doesn't want to admit it. It's the training. It's in his blood.

Keep moving, it tells him. Do what you need to do to survive.

His hands are shaking as he takes the scissors to his hair, cropping it close. They're trembling uncontrollably, but he frosts his tips blonde. He squirts some hair gel into his hands and runs his fingers along his scalp, coaxing the once-unruly locks to spike.

The baby blue contact slips into his eye with ease, the black eye-patch covers his empty socket. He pulls a black t-shirt over his head, shimmies into his black leather pants, hooks his holster around his waist and secures his gun. His axe gets stashed in the back of his belt, but the black leather trench hides it completely.

He doesn't look in the mirror as he packs the rest of his stuff into his duffel bag, can't bear to meet his own eye as he brutally erases every sign that he's been in the room. He packs his shit, secures it to his bike, and he's gone.

He thinks he'll just ride until he finds what he's looking for. Even if he occasionally has to pull over and dry heave.

He hasn't slept in five days.

o


	3. Rurouni

Title: The Long Haul

Author: Becka

Chapter 3: Rurouni*

o

It's been two weeks. Xander looks like shit and he knows it. The black circles under his eyes are pronounced, but every time Xander tries to sleep, he wakes up screaming. The last motel he stayed at complained about the noise, only letting it rest after he'd palmed the owner a couple of twenties.

Xander figures, what the fuck? He buys a sleeping bag and starts camping out along the road. Near as he can tell, he's in the middle of Utah.

Most nights, he just keeps riding. He doesn't stop, because he knows when he stops, his body will shut down and force him to sleep. He can't deal with that.

It's the fucking nightmares that get him, every time.

The nightmares aren't enough to keep the real life monsters at bay though. See, originally he wasn't worried about demonic activity because he figured the Hellmouth area was concentrated, and that the rest of the world wasn't going to be so bad.

That illusion has long since been shattered – ever since he took a pit stop, walked into the bathroom of a shady little gas station, and ended up in the middle of some sort of demonic sacrifice. Not even noon, and three scaly lizard creatures already had a little kid tied to a makeshift altar.

After all's said and done, Xander's amazed that Utah also has the level of denial to accept PCP-gang bullshit.

Knowing the lizards' weakness had been dumb luck. He remembers coming across them during a random research-fest, and he'd thought it was interesting that the bizarre demons were deathly allergic to Clorox Bleach. That little tidbit of knowledge is the only thing that saved him and the kid from everlasting suffering at the hands of some random lesser demon lord.

The next day, he buys a thick, leather-bound journal into which he begins recording all of his know-how on various vampires, demons, and other uglies of the night. It's a precautionary measure, really, and probably too paranoid for his own good. Still, in the unlikely event that he ever gets amnesia, either from a spell, a side-effect of killing demons, or a good ol' fashion boot to the head, he wants to know that he'll be able to take care of himself.

He's not looking for trouble. No, sir.

But trouble does have a nasty habit of finding him.

Maybe that's in his blood as well.

It's sort of nice, in a way. He's never thought that he was a particularly good artist, but in the dead of the night, pages illuminated by the moon overhead, he manages to jot fairly accurate sketches of the various critters he's encountered. Names, general background information, whatever demonic entity they might worship, and pointers on what the easiest ways to off them are carefully noted in the margins. Thanks to Spike's influence, he even knows some choice phrases guaranteed to either scare them off or piss them off.

All in all, Xander's amazed at the number of creatures he documents.

Still, it helps keep his mind off… other things.

Generally, he does everything in his power to avoid being found by said demons. But it never hurts to be prepared, and the soldier in Xander's head usually shuts up as long as he pays attention to his surroundings.

Of course, the soldier doesn't __really__ leave him alone until he's bought a couple of extra handguns off the black market, and a handful of grenades.

He can't blame the rocket launcher on the voices in his head, though. That one's pure self-indulgence.

His new supplies make travel a bit more complicated, and he ends up getting a nice, classy pickup truck. His bike gets secured in the back, his duffel bag is stowed on the passenger's side, and he's perfectly fine with keeping the rocket launcher under his seat. One of the perks to this arrangement is that he doesn't need to find a flat area to camp out; he can pull over just about anywhere and set up the nice comfy sleeping bag next to his bike.

Right now, he's just killing time. Killing demons when they cross his path. Killing a six-pack of beer at the nearest bar whenever it gets to be too much.

Don't think about it, Xand-man, he says to himself in the dead of the night, staring up at the starless sky. Ignore it and it'll go away.

If he tells himself this often enough, he thinks maybe he'll start to believe it.

He's got nothing but time on his hands, now, and since he doesn't exist to anyone that matters, he thinks he needs to figure out what to do with himself. He needs something to keep him occupied.

He knows he's running away.

But the further he runs, the easier it is to forget what he's running from.

So he wanders, beats the hell out of his kick-ass truck and thanks to odd-job #41, two months as a mechanic at PepBoys, he can open up the hood, tinker around a bit, and he's back on his way. From coast to coast and back again, one month, three months, six months, and he doesn't think it's odd that the creatures of the night now know his name.

Okay, maybe that's a lie. He was a bit wigged out when he was in the middle of rescuing some faceless blonde and the run o' the mill vamp who'd been trying to suck her blood took one look at him and fell to its knees. It didn't help that said vamp started crying and blubbering about Caducus, the Angel of Death, and proceeded to beg for its life.

Yeah, he admits to himself, dusting off the ashes, it's wig-worthy.

Being known to the demon population has its ups and its downs. Fledges, young demons, and cannon fodder usually run screaming into the night when they figure out who he is, but on the other hand, the big bads on the food chain actively start to seek him out.

Having a rep is all well and dandy, but honestly, backing it up is more trouble than it's worth.

So he keeps killing demons, keeps jotting down descriptions, names, and notes in the margin of his leather book. As the months fly by, he starts picking up choice words in various demonic languages, starts understanding the insults that fly his way when he's slicing through bodies and getting covered in nasty goo.

Isn't this what I was running from? Xander thinks to himself.

But no matter how fast or how far he runs, there are always more faceless blondes to save. There are always demonic sacrifices to break up. There are always demons out for his blood.

Demons out for his blood. Hah! They're in his blood.

The killing is a part of him, and he can't escape it. The killing is killing __him__ but he can't stop because he doesn't remember how.

The nightmares are still with him – flames licking at a body that's wearing his face – but at least he doesn't wake up screaming anymore.

He's sitting at a little bar in Philadelphia, now. He's sipping his beer and staring at the calendar and wondering if it's really been a year since __that__ night.

It has.

Which is why he's drinking. It's the one-year death-day anniversary of his first human kill, and Jesus, maybe it might be easier if he knew what the kid's name was, but he doesn't think so.

Xander hears a couple of guys snickering in the background. They're pointing at him and laughing at the worn leather trench coat. They're eyeing his spiky blonde hair and saying he's a fag. They're whispering that he's probably got some money on him, and that he'll be too drunk defend himself.

Xander's hearing hasn't always been this keen, but the hyena incident spiked his senses, and a year on the road has honed them. Xander can pick up the sort of bullshit these guys are mouthing despite the fact they're on the other side of the room and the din in the bar is deafening.

There are five of them. Xander knows this because he can hear five heartbeats quickening. One of them is making his way across the room and to his side. Xander knows this because when they were talking, he memorized their breathing patterns. The guy is going to stumble into him in a minute and pick a fight. Xander knows this because it's what drunken assholes do.

The guy jerks forward, about to trip into him, when Xander stands smoothly and moves out of the way. He sips his beer as the guy crashes into the empty barstool.

"You should be more careful," Xander's mouth says, accompanied by the twisted parody of a smile. "You could really hurt yourself."

The guy – dark hair, dark-eyes, maybe an inch taller than Xander is – growls something. Xander translates the grunts to, "Let's take this outside."

Xander complies because he's got nothing better to do.

And Xander already knows how this is going to play out. He knows that they'll go outside, and that the guy's friends will follow. He knows they'll come at him all at once – strength in numbers and that sort of shit. He knows that it'll only take him a moment to break the first guy's arm, shatter the second guy's kneecaps, knock out the third and fourth guys by slamming their heads together.

He knows that it'll only take him about two minutes to do all this. And at the end of that time, he'll be holding his gun against the last guy's head and staring into wide, dark eyes.

What Xander doesn't know is whether he'll be able to stop himself from pulling the trigger.

o

Note: A rurouni is a Japanese term which basically means "a wandering swordsman with no destination." Rurouni travel to make up for their past sins, never staying in one place for to long, never forming any attachment to the people they meet.

o


	4. Dragula

Title: The Long Haul

Author: Becka

Chapter 4: Dragula

o

Xander's sitting in his truck, cruising along at sixty miles per hour on a deserted highway. The radio's blaring "Dragula," by Rob Zombie, and even though Xander's screaming the words, he can't hear himself.

After all, what's the point of being a millionaire if you don't install a kick-ass sound system in your vehicle of choice?

Xander's eyes are on the road. Xander's hands are on the wheel. Xander's screaming "Dead I am the one, exterminating son." But Xander's mind? Xander's mind is taking a little trip down memory lane.

Mind you, this isn't a choice on his part. Xander likes to steer clear of the past. He doesn't need his father's voice in his head to tell him what a fuck-up he really is. But there's a question on his mind, and he's got no choice but to go back, back, back to answer it.

When did it all go wrong? When did __he__ go wrong?

Thankfully he can exclude dwelling on his little disappearing act – it was already in his blood at that point.

So... when? When did it happen? When could he first look at another human being and premeditate doing them harm?

Did it start when he helped to blow up Sunnydale? Sure, they evacuated the town, but the possibility of missing someone was there. What about that bum in the alleyway? Did he get out? How about that recluse that lived a few blocks away from his old house? It's possible the old man didn't get the memo.

Xander remembers thinking about it back then, and he remembers waving the idea off with a shake of his head. He'd had a job to do – save the citizens of Sunnydale. So long as almost everyone got out, it would be all right.

Thinking about it now makes Xander pause. When had he started thinking in terms of "acceptable loss of life?"

So, further back then that.

He rewinds a few years in his head, pausing to consider every once in a while. He picks a situation and asks himself, is that it? Is that when I went wrong? And each time he shakes his head – no, no, no – and backtracks a little more.

What about Glory? What about when Buffy died?

He remembers that fight, remembers watching from the shadows as Giles stood over the human host of Glory. What was the kid's name? Oh yeah – Ben.

Giles reached out with trembling hands, palm covering Ben's nose and Ben's mouth, and it had been a terrible thing to watch. He'd seen the haunted look in the older man's eyes before he did it. Back then, he'd wondered it Giles would go through with it.

He remembers thinking that if Giles couldn't do it, he would.

The soldier's mentality was already there. One life compared to one thousand. Acceptable loss. The needs of the many.

"Dead I am the sky, watching angels cry," his mouth yells.

He delves a little deeper.

What about the Ascension? What about when we stopped the Mayor?

Xander remembers his high school graduation, remembers the one-liners he'd discounted – "So," he could have said, "Who do I have to kill to get out of this joint?" Or, "Dad always said I'd be dead before I graduated – who knew he'd be right?"

He'd armed his fellow students to the teeth, studying each of them and noting their build, their height, before assigning them a suitable weapon. He'd handpicked the first line of defense, smiling as he'd led them to their doom. And there it was again – acceptable loss of life.

Jesus, he'd been eighteen when he'd started playing God.

Nope, Xander thinks, white-knuckled fingers tightening on his steering wheel like a noose. Nope, it was in my blood before that.

"Dead I am the pool, spreading from the fool," his mouth sings.

What about before Halloween? Before the soldier? Was he normal then?

No, Xander thinks, and he remembers Jack O'Toole and the Zombies. He remembers standing in the boiler room of Sunnydale High and looking into a dead man's eyes. He remembers the smile that curved his lips, the wistful tone of his voice as he'd admitted, "I like the quiet."

Acceptable loss had been a part of him before the soldier.

Lack of respect for life, even his own, had been there already.

"Dead I am the rat, feast upon the cat," his mouth cries.

Deeper still.

He thinks about the hyena, the creature in his head that takes up a third of his soul. He remembers the freedom, the lack of inhibition. He remembers the part of him that his possession unlocked.

He'd hurt Willow. He'd hurt Buffy. He'd been ready and willing to __eat__ someone for God's sake.

The key to his decision to go back further still is "unlocked."

The hyena hadn't given him anything that wasn't already there.

"Dead I am the life, dig into the skin," his mouth says.

So Xander goes back, and back, and back.

He remembers grade school. He remembers kindergarten. He remembers being five years old and ripping the head off Willow's Barbie just to see her cry.

Xander goes back as far as he can remember.

And it still isn't enough.

"Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry," Xander whispers, and his thoughts turn to yesterday. Standing outside a shady bar in Philly with a thug on his hands and knees. Wide eyes looking up at him, terror reflected in their depths, and a gun in his hand.

And Xander knows that tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever he settles down to sleep, he'll see that scene in his head. Only it will be his own eyes he's looking into when he pulls the trigger.

"Devil on your back," Xander says, and his foot pushes down on the gas pedal and his hand snakes out and turns the radio all the way up.

"I can never die."

o


	5. Swearing Fealty

Title: The Long Haul

Author: Becka

Chapter 5: Swearing Fealty

o

It's only by chance that Xander's passing through New York and notices that there's a big sign that reads "Open House and Admissions."

He notices the bright, obnoxious red letters on the bright, obnoxious yellow background first, and then he looks around and spots another sign that says "New York University." There's a minute where he almost toys with the idea and all it promises – direction, purpose, the chance to prove he's not a fuck up – and then he thinks, Me? Xander Harris? College material?

Nah.

The cars in front of him are honking, and sirens are blaring, but it's New York after all. There's probably an accident up ahead.

So he's sitting in traffic, bored and looking for a distraction, and again he glances at the big, bright sign.

It's while he's watching the sign that he sees something out of the corner of his eye. Blonde hair, just down to a set of slim shoulders, and he knows it's all in his head because he's fucked up like that but there's the barest of seconds where he forgets who he is and whispers, "Anya...?"

The blonde head ducks through an entrance of NYU.

Xander grabs the steering wheel, jerks it hard to the side, and does a U-turn in the middle of rush-hour traffic on what's got to be the busiest street in New York City. People actually stop to stare at the psycho in the huge black four-wheeler who's crossing the lanes of opposing traffic. Xander's grateful that they stop staring long enough to get out of the way as he hops a curb and parks on the sidewalk.

One of the bystanders, a kid who looks to be maybe fifteen, is near enough to grab as Xander slips out of the car and shoves a wad of twenties into his hand. The kid looks stupefied, so Xander steers him toward the parked vehicle and barks, "Watch that for me, would ya?"

And then Xander's bolting through the entrance of one of New York's finest educational institutions.

There are people milling around, all sorts of people. Black, Caucasian, Indian – every color of skin imaginable. Ravers, punkers, goths, and preps, all blurred together, though it's pretty obvious they're only mingling with their own crowds. It's the hair that Xander's looking at though, sifting through black and red, brown and blue, purple and pink.

A couple of the girls are eyeing Xander, smiling shyly behind cupped hands. They're pointing at him and whispering, "Look at that guy," the dark hair with the frosted tips, the leather trench, the eye patch. They're "ooh"ing and "aah"ing like he's some kind of sideshow attraction.

The last time this happened to Xander, he was under a spell on Valentine's Day. He thinks he should maybe double-check and see if the effects are acting up, because he feels like a piece of meat under their watchful eyes.

A couple of guys are staring too. Xander feels more comfortable with the looks he gets from them – he's used to being sized up. He's used to having other people think they can take him.

One guy actually waltzes right up to him, all big muscles and superior sneering. Xander tries to move around him, still scanning the crowd for Anya, but the guy won't have it.

"Nice patch," the guy says, smirking. "What are you? Some kinda pirate?"

"Nope," Xander says, and he flips the patch up and reveals his empty socket. The cool air makes him blink, but he still catches the guy's mortified expression.

"Jesus," the guy mutters, "Sorry, man. I mean..."

"It's not a fashion statement," Xander replies, flipping his eye patch back down. "You gonna to get out of my way now?"

The guy jumps to the side, still muttering apologies, but Xander ignores him.

It can't be Anya. Anya's dead.

But Xander has to see with his own eye. Xander has to know for sure.

He spends the next thirty minutes wandering aimlessly, and with every second that passes, he's coming to believe that he really has lost it.

It's just when he's given up hope that he sees her again, sitting on a bench, head bowed as she reads what appears to be a financial journal. Xander weaves through the crowd, each step bringing him closer. He's squinting and wondering, is she real? Please let her be real.

His footsteps slow and finally cease as he halts in front of her, and his body blocks the light from the sun, shadowing her blonde hair. She looks up, an annoyed frown marring her features.

"Can I help you?" she asks pointedly, clearly irritated.

Please, help me, Xander thinks. It's not Anya.

"Sorry," his mouth says softly. "You look like someone I used to know."

She rolls her eyes, fathomless blue eyes that look so much like Anya's. "Like I haven't heard that one before."

"Sorry," Xander repeats, feeling lost. She's got the eyes, the hair, the build. Even the endearing, caustic voice. But her face is just a little longer than Anya's, and the nose is far more petite, and the lips are all wrong.

"Look," she says scathingly, "I don't know you. So, by default, you don't know me. Stop staring, turn around, and toddle off to your friends with your head hanging in shame 'cause you're __so__ not getting into my pants. Any questions?"

"What's your name?"

Xander knows he probably should just leave, but the ache in his chest is so bloody painful, and it's only poetic justice that he give her the chance to twist the knife a little deeper.

She rolls her eyes. "If I tell you, will you go away?"

He nods.

"Katrina," she replies, then makes a shooing motion with her free hand. "Leave."

"Sorry," Xander says again, and he lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He turns and leaves her to wonder what it is he's apologizing for.

It's as he's making his way back to his truck that he feels the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to raise. He pauses, glances around, and it only takes him a moment to spot an older woman in a business suit staring at him, a tiny smile on her lips.

Anyone staring at him might have tipped him off, but his Xandy-sense is tingling and he knows she's a demon. His mind runs though and discounts the possibilities – Vengeance Demon, perhaps? Or maybe that's just the memories of Anya talking. Definitely not a zombie or vampire, as he's never found a Daywalker in either species. Maybe a Threstria or a Siren?

She walks over to him, her hips swaying ever so slightly. "Alexander Caducus?"

"Yes?"

"The Dean would like to speak with you, if that's all right?"

The Dean. His mind ponders this and wonders if he has another Mayor-o'-Sunnyhell situation on his hands. He nods his assent and falls into step beside the woman as she leads him through the campus and to the Administrative Building.

As they approach one of the offices, he asks softly. "Who are you?"

She tosses him a predatory grin. "The Dean."

The door swings open to reveal a tidy, if slightly opulent office. She situates herself behind the desk, gesturing for him to take a seat. He does so, shoving one of his hands into his pocket. His fingers curl around a stake, and he sees she recognizes the gesture for what it is. Instantly, her hands are on her desk, silently showing him that she is without a weapon.

Of course, he doesn't believe it for an instant, but he lets his shoulders relax a little to let her know he'll listen.

The Dean quirks a brow, smile stretching pleasantly across thin lips. "Caducus," she says, tilting her head to the side marginally. "A very unique name. Quite morbid, actually."

Xander shrugs.

"I've heard some rumors about a man named Caducus, you know. Superstitious nonsense, really," her tone of voice is quite convincing. "After all, who believes in demon hunters and magic books?"

"Lunatics," Xander deadpans, playing along.

"Oh, yes," the Dean says. She leans forward over her desk and lowers her voice conspiratorially "Demons, the occult – it's a hobby of mine. This alleged demon hunter is apparently missing one eye – quite a disadvantage, if you think about it, but you know how rumors go. Exaggerating the details to make the story more... interesting."

"Quite a coincidence," Xander says, feigning surprise as he touches his eye patch with his free hand.

"Indeed," the Dean practically purrs. "There's more to Caducus then that, of course. Apparently he has quite a reputation in the demon world. Hunters don't usually last long – they're largely targeted, you know – but this man has been around for almost two __years__. I think he's actually only a few months shy of breaking the record."

"Fascinating," Xander says, shrugging. Of course, this is all news to him but he knows better than to let it show.

"Yes, well," the Dean smiles, "As I mentioned, it is a hobby of mine. If such a man existed, I would love to meet him."

"Really?" Xander asks, and his fingers twitch around the stake. "What would you say to him?"

Her smile widens. "I'd ask him if he might be interested in a business proposition. And if such a thing as demons were, in fact, real, I'd tell him that there were a few I'd be interested in having him kill."

Xander's thoughts turn to Anya – Katrina – for a moment. She'd always been so helpless; a once-demon trapped inside a frail, human body. He'd been too weak to protect her.

"Caducus is probably a nomad," Xander said softly. "I'd doubt that even if you did meet him, he'd have any place around here to stay."

The Dean glances down at her hands, examining her nails, and replies, "As the Dean of this university, I might be inclined to offer him a scholarship. He could take a few classes and live in one of the dorms if he wanted."

Xander remembers that Anya – Katrina – had been reading a book about finances.

"If you did get him to agree," he says slowly, "what do you suppose you'd offer him in exchange?"

"Well," her gaze slides smoothly from her nails and to his face, "I doubt such a man would be interested in money. Knowledge, perhaps? Power, certainly. And if I were to find Caducus, I'd have to insist he swear fealty to me."

"How many demons are you sworn to?" he counters.

A tiny smile quirks the corner of her mouth. "Only one."

Xander's mind kicks into overdrive. He knows, from what he's learned, that all demons swear fealty to a higher demon. Said demon is sworn to an even higher demon, and this pattern continues until the final demon lord swears themselves directly to Lucifer, prince of __all__ demons.

Pending on the demon's honesty, the question is a nice little way to find out where exactly one is on the food chain.

"Who are you?" he asks softly.

"The Dean," she says, and she sees his understanding. She extends her perfectly manicured hand and he accepts. "But you may call me Beelzebub."

o


End file.
